The God Shelf

[Verse 1]
I’m the splinter of cedar he sanded smooth for your mother,
Set on a nail on this west-facing wall.
Came over the ocean wrapped up in a sweater,
Now I hold the day's rice and a Mobile Bay oyster,
Smell the salt in the air through the screen in the hall,
And I watch the seams of this household pull.

[Chorus]
Some ghosts wear boots, some ghosts wear silk,
And you sweep 'em both out with the dust and the spilled milk.
You patch the same holes with a new piece of thread,
And you leave a little salt out for all the unsaid.

[Verse 2]
It’s a Tuesday in August, the air's thick as tar,
Heat lightning is sketching a silent memoir.
The hum from the fridge is the only guitar
While he’s out on the porch swing and you’re in the car.
You’re darning his patience, not just his old jeans,
Two planets just orbiting different scenes.

[Bridge]
Your mother once whispered, "O-kome wa inochi," so low,
As she brushed my flat top, a long time ago.
Her ghost is the incense that fights the kudzu.

[Outro]
The dust motes all settle.
You start it again.